Death’s Hand

Silent with the calm of nature’s breeze
Not even a whisper is heard of its approach.
Yet the sound is deafening and loud:
Thundering,
Shrieking,
Roaring
With the savage cry of an imperious beast
announcing its territory.
Cool and impassive, the expression is serene
But nothing short of terrifying.
Any trace of feeling or sympathy is non-existent
From a heart long replaced by stone.
Dark and foreboding a hand beckons:
Seizing,
Grasping
It take hold,
And nothing-
Nothing can loosen the grip on which
Death so tightly claims to own.